"Miss Moncrief," he repeated -- and her first name was spared the roughhousing it would recieve from being stretched through his Yorkshire vowels. He wasn't sure about what she had to say about her own name -- it sounded either like a lie or like a very sad child. But he supposed the buggers would've put the poor thing through the wringer before delivering her back to the village. Her wits weren't about her. Simple as that.

"...There a place I can take you, Miss Moncrief? A home where I can deliver you safely?"